“Matter of fact, there was a bit of private business I wanted a word with you about. This boat’s too full of what I call riff-raff. Mouth-organs. Bad taste. Can’t hear yourself speak. But we get an hour at Ramsgate, and if you’ll take a snack with me there, I can tell you what I’ve got to say.”
More from curiosity than from anything else, I accepted. And I must say that our luncheon conversation was rather remarkable.
Birsch: To come to the point, you’re the very identical girl that I want Alfred to marry.
Marge (innocently): Alfred?
Birsch: Yes, my son.
Marge: But I have never even seen him.
Birsch: And when you have you’ll probably wish you hadn’t. But don’t let that prejudice you. It’s the inside of the head that counts. That boy’s got a perfect genius for cottage property and real tact with it. Only last week he raised an old woman’s rent a shilling a week, and when he left she gave him a rosebud and said she’d pray for him. It takes some doing—a thing like that. Now, I want a public career for that boy, and if he marries you he can’t miss it. Do you know what Mr. Bunting said to me about you?
Marge (breathlessly): But he’s so flattering. I think he likes me—I don’t know why. I sometimes wonder——
Birsch (just as if I’d never spoken): Bunting said to me: “That girl, Marge, will get into the newspapers. It may be in the Court News, and it may be in the Police-court News. That will depend on which she prefers. But she’ll get there, and she’ll stick there!” That’s what I want for Alfred. Everything’s ready for him to start firing, but he needs you to sight the gun.
Marge: And if you can’t get me, whom would you like?